“Some women do not know when to step back,” Laurel said one afternoon while watching Dorothy rock Theodore.
Dorothy smiled without warmth. “Some women never learned how to step forward.”
In the other world, Dorothy documented everything.
Dates. Times. Statements. Visitors.
Grant’s mistress arrived at the house again on the ninth day after Colleen’s death. This time she did not sneak through the garden. She parked in the driveway in a cream-colored Mercedes and carried in a garment bag and a bouquet of peonies as though she were a guest entitled to comfort.
Dorothy met her at the front door.
The woman smiled first. “You must be Colleen’s mother. I’m Vivian. I’ve been helping Grant.”
Dorothy took in the expensive coat, the flawless makeup, the particular confidence of a woman who believed grief had already made everyone around her too weak to challenge her.
“No,” Dorothy said. “You’ve been waiting.”
Vivian’s smile faltered.
Dorothy stepped aside anyway because scenes at doorways are satisfying only in movies, and she had no interest in satisfaction that could not survive a courtroom.
That night, Dorothy heard another whisper through the baby monitor.
Another low female laugh.